


Shy When the Lights Are On

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Edgeplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Loss of Control, M/M, Making Out, Orgasm Anxiety, Size Kink, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eddie wants a lot of things, but whether he'll let himself have them is another matter.Or, Eddie has to work his way up to orgasming with Richie.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 58
Collections: Anonymous





	Shy When the Lights Are On

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [don't stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551821) by [comefeedtherainn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn). 



The first time that it happens, they’re making out on Richie’s bed in his condo in Los Angeles. Eddie loves this bed with a passion he has never let himself feel for inanimate objects, but he went to the store and picked out the temperature-controlled mattress protector, he selected the pillowtop mattress cover, he bought Richie some new sheets with a higher threadcount than what he’d been sleeping on, and he talked him into getting a quilt for the summer and a comforter for the winter. There’s not much difference in Los Angeles, but Eddie felt satisfied as he folded up the comforter and stored it in the linen closet. He’s planning on being here for the long haul.

So the bed feels very much like his own. All of their bruises from their subterranean clownhunt have faded over the months, Richie’s leg has two pins in the knee, and Eddie is almost entirely recovered from the surgery to repair his radial nerve in his right arm. They are doing what they do a lot when Eddie comes home from work with sweat soaking the back of his dress shirt and strips off in front of the air conditioning vent in the master bedroom—which is test out how load-bearing Richie’s healing leg can be.

Eddie tries to behave, but sometimes it’s very difficult not just to maul Richie when he sits on the edge of the bed. He’s big, and sturdy, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the way Richie’s arms loop around his back and hold him securely. But Eddie’s trying not to make Richie’s physical therapist hate him too much, so it’s really an act of extreme self-control when he pushes Richie down onto his back and kisses him.

Richie never makes the bed unless Eddie starts it, and then Richie will help on autopilot. The idea just never occurs to him. This means that the sheets are always tangled when Eddie gets home, and the pillow frequently still has the imprint of Richie’s head in the center, and the sheets smell like Richie. He sort of sinks into the bedding when he lies down, and Eddie likes lying on top of him and feeling the solidity of him within the softness of the bed.

He likes shoving Richie down, too. Richie’s big and broad and Eddie likes that he can splay his hands across Richie’s pecs and Richie will just stay where Eddie puts him. It gets him right in the lizard brain.

Eddie is sucking a hickey under Richie’s Adam’s apple when Richie tilts his head back and hisses. He pulls away with a wet sound.

“You okay?”

Richie’s panting, which isn’t unusual, but Eddie’s alert for the warning signs.

“Other hip,” Richie says. “It’s good, just, your weight.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and rolls his weight onto his other leg so that his body rests more securely on Richie’s other hip. He happens to roll directly across Richie’s erection in the process, and Richie huffs out a breath. Eddie returns to admiring his work at the base of Richie’s throat, looking at the speckles of broken blood vessels. He licks him like it’s a signature.

“Hang on—hang on,” Richie says. He reaches down and grabs hold of Eddie’s hip, and Eddie jolts in something like surprise. But Richie’s goal is, apparently, to spread his legs so Eddie’s lying between them and none of his body weight is on Richie’s bad knee.

Eddie’s almost charmed by it. They’re making out like teenagers and still dealing with their middle-aged joints. It has always been Richie.

“Better?” Eddie asks.

Richie lets his head loll back, hand drifting across Eddie’s ass. “Yeah, fuck me up, babe.” His voice is like melted butter.

“Not babe,” Eddie says sternly, and dedicates himself to sucking a symmetrical mark on the other side of Richie’s throat.

Richie bruises like a peach. The first time Eddie wrapped his leg up so that he could bathe and helped him wrestle out of his shirt, he panicked a bit about the massive black and green clouds that ran from the back of Richie’s thigh to his mid-back. Eddie kept asking him if he had blood in his urine or any other symptoms of kidney damage. But Richie’s just soft and pale, and he bruises as enthusiastically whether Eddie’s sucking hickeys into his throat or squeezing the tops of his thighs. And it turns out that there’s a primordial part of Eddie that likes seeing the remnants of his teeth on him. It’s juvenile. It’s unprofessional. It looks so good on him.

Richie’s fingers tighten on his ass and Eddie becomes aware of how he’s rolling his hips against Richie’s pelvis. It was not a conscious decision. He stops immediately, embarrassed. He honestly thought that steady pulse of arousal just came from lying between Richie’s legs and worrying at his skin, knowing that Richie was allowing it.

“Okay?” Richie asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie manages. He sounds like he has something caught in his throat.

Richie spreads his hands and hooks fingers under the curve of Eddie’s ass. Eddie wants to jerk away and simultaneously longs for more pressure up against his dick. Slowly Richie pulls him forward a little bit, dragging Eddie’s hips into his, making his roll more deliberate.

“Yeah?” Richie asks.

Eddie flushes with embarrassment but it’s hot, too—like they’re fucking and Richie’s showing him the rhythm he wants. They haven’t done that yet. Eddie’s both intimidated and shy, and Richie—despite vanishing into the bathroom for conspicuous periods of time on a regular basis—is being pretty gracious about the urgent case of blue balls Eddie brought with him when he moved in.

“Yeah,” he answers, cracking on the vowel.

Richie’s mouth twitches wickedly and Eddie kisses him before he can do a Voice. Richie sighs through his nose and tangibly relaxes under Eddie. His head lolls back, his thighs fall open a little wider, and he seems to sink into the bed. The sudden yielding of tension reaches down into Eddie’s body and grips his guts.

For a while Eddie entertained the thought that Richie had some kind of bizarre mind-reading powers. They’d be sitting watching TV, or Eddie would be cleaning up after giving Richie his shot of blood thinners, or Eddie would be reading on his Kindle, and he’d start thinking about sex because he’s allowed to do that now; and then he’d look up to find that Richie was watching him with a very still considering kind of look. Not the besotted way that Eddie is used to catching Richie looking at him.

Then he realizes that, no matter how insignificant the arousal, his breathing gave him away. His lungs are a barometer, or a pressure gage. All he has to do is think about Richie rolling on top of him and Eddie practically starts panting for it.

He shifts onto his hip so that he can ruck up the hem of Richie’s shirt and get a look at his belly. Richie’s soft and even paler here, with a crooked line of dark hair leading down from his navel toward his dick. Eddie thinks that’s incredibly sexy—has always secretly thought that was sexy, even as he wrinkled his nose at phrases like “happy trail” and looked with displeasure on his body’s own sparse presentation of hair. Richie’s sort of lightly fuzzy all over and extremely touchable—Eddie runs his palms over him and enjoys the texture. It makes up for how Richie sheds like an animal and occasionally needs Eddie to take the hair clippers to his shoulders—“so I don’t look like I’m wearing a sweater,” Richie says.

Eddie saw Richie naked pretty frequently before they actually started the making-out part of the mutually acknowledged feelings. Richie was recovering, and he was barely mobile, and he stank and was embarrassed about it. There was very little sexy about trying to give a decidedly uncooperative Richie a sponge bath with only his left hand, while Richie cursed and kept snatching the washcloth out of Eddie’s grip and complaining that he’d do it, it was pulling his chest hair.

When Eddie went back to work at the Los Angeles office and came home, having failed to buy more breathable fabrics when he moved from the east coast to the west coast, Richie walked in on him changing his shirt. Eddie’s hands went to cover his nipples immediately—he still doesn’t know why. Richie’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and then closed tightly. “Fuck,” he said, like it hurt.

So Eddie doesn’t think that Richie minds that Eddie doesn’t have much chest hair.

He coaxes his thumbs under the waistband of Richie’s sweatpants and Richie’s breathing hitches. He starts kissing him more frantically. Eddie slides his thumbs down, feeling for the dip. Richie has a nice healthy padding of subcutaneous fat here, so his hipbones don’t stick out the way that Eddie’s do, but there is a little dimple at the top of each of his thighs and Eddie loves them. He rubs there gently.

Richie _squeezes_ him and Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily. It feels fucking fantastic. Richie does it again, and again, and each time Eddie’s little recoil gets smaller as he adjusts to it, and he lets himself squirm as he tries to find equilibrium again.

Richie breaks the kiss by pulling back and gets his elbow under them. “Watch your head,” he says.

“What?” says Eddie, and then is staring up at the ceiling, his body still singing from the sudden shift in gravity. Richie just flipped him. “What?” he says again stupidly.

“That okay?” Richie asks. He’s stretching one leg over Eddie’s hips and looks like he’s getting ready to settle his weight on him.

Eddie wants it with a suddenness that seems almost violent. He can’t even answer—he has to reach up and grab hold of Richie’s jaw and kiss him. His stubble grates Eddie’s palms; he hasn’t shaved today, but he’s brushed his teeth, and Eddie can taste the Listerine in the back of his mouth. He pushes hard against Richie’s chin and forces his mouth open wider—he wants it to feel like devouring, he wants Richie to _eat him up_ —and Richie just goes with it.

Slowly he puts his weight on Eddie’s chest and bears him down to the mattress. It’s Eddie’s turn to sink into the bedding, to feel the pillows cloud up over his ears. Richie’s heavy and breathing is hard enough already, but the pressure feels nice. Eddie’s brain floats dim concepts of heat and pressure increasing when volume is reduced. He feels better, more contained, less likely to fly apart when Richie’s lying on top of him. Then Richie rolls his hips into Eddie’s and Eddie hears himself make a sound, startlingly low, like Richie pressed it right out of him.

Richie breaks the kiss with a wet sound. “Yeah?” he asks, voice guttural and smug. He shifts his weight on the bed, adjusting the position of his hands, rocking with a little more intent.

“Shut up,” Eddie gasps, and grabs for him again. He puts his hand on the back of Richie’s head and holds him to him, letting his other hand slide down the column of Richie’s neck, over his cervical vertebrae to the notch at the top of his spine. He lets his nails scratch a little, and Richie’s breath comes strained and his hips push into Eddie’s with purpose.

It’s good, it’s hot, and Eddie can barely move and he needs to be closer to Richie—there’s nothing but Richie, Richie is the only way forward—so he wraps his legs around Richie’s hips and Richie growls into his mouth and the hot lazy pleasure in the pit of Eddie’s stomach suddenly turns urgent, no longer enjoyable, something that needs to be solved immediately. Richie rides up against him and it feels good and Eddie’s muscles tense, the pressure in his balls going _tight_.

He lets go of Richie with every limb and falls back to the bed, gasping, “Stop, stop, stop.”

Richie freezes. His eyes are wide and very dark as he blinks at Eddie in concern. “You okay?”

“Don’t move,” Eddie says.

He scrunches his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. His knees come up defensively, trying to curl around his dick. All the parts of his body he wrapped around Richie feel cold without his warmth and weight. His orgasm dies in the cradle of his hips, sinking down with a sensation like falling. Eddie grits his teeth against it, his need suddenly more urgent. It’ll pass. He breathes through his nose.

Richie waits for a moment and then shifts his weight to roll off of Eddie. He lies on his right side, propped on one elbow.

“Did you come?” he asks, almost conversationally.

Eddie curls tighter. “No,” he says. That’s the point.

When Richie touches him again, it’s surprisingly tender. He pushes his fingers through Eddie’s hair, as if the reason Eddie is agitated is that he needs a comb.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

Eddie almost pulls out the _beep beep_ , because it won’t help if Richie dirty-talks him. He doesn’t know if Richie would do that, or if that’s something he likes, but Eddie has some strong suspicions about his own inclinations. He doesn’t want to tell Richie to shut up, though—this is almost polite, for Richie.

He strokes Eddie’s hair a little more intently. His palm smooths over Eddie’s temple. “You can, if you want,” he says lightly. Like it’s that easy. Like it’s nothing. He lowers his head to Eddie’s and says almost into his ear, “Anything you want.”

Eddie’s body stings with absence. He’s still uncomfortably hard in his pants, but now he feels exposed and cold in the middle of their empty bedroom.

“No,” he says, and swallows. He can’t look at Richie when he says it. “Not yet, I mean.”

Richie is quiet for a moment, and then he leans forward and presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple. “Okay,” he says. He no longer smells so much like Listerine; Eddie can still taste his saliva. He rolls onto his back. “Whatever you want, Eds.”

Eddie opens one eye hesitantly to check his expression. Richie isn’t looking at him, but instead at the ceiling, and his brow is smooth and his expression faintly dreamy. Eddie dares a glance lower. Richie’s sweatpants are clinging to his hips by what seems like sheer force of will; he is prominently and impressively hard.

They lie there on the bed, Eddie’s body settling like an animal under him, for long enough for their breathing to even out. Eventually Richie asks, “You want some iced tea? I want some iced tea.”

Eddie wonders if he actually means to go pour them glasses of iced tea out of the pitcher Eddie made and put in the fridge over the weekend, or if this is a gentle euphemism to get him into the bathroom to jerk off.

“Sure,” Eddie says, knowing the caffeine will be bad for him, especially this late in the day.

Richie gets up and walks, favoring his healed leg a little, to the door of the bedroom. Eddie hears his footsteps on the carpet as he pads out into the hallway.

As soon as he’s sure of his solitude he rolls over on the bed, hand cupping over his dick and pressing down. He wraps his other arm around his head and groans into the pillow, not in relief but in continued frustration.


End file.
